Mad Dog - II

Both move slow, taking the time to look at each other, and exchange annoyed faces.

“We can't just let them go,” says the blonde lady. Speaking in Chinese with words heavy at the end.

Zhang turns on his foot and stops right in front of her. He's just a few metres away, but gives no sign he sees me.

“Why not?” says Zhang, with a nonchalant attitude.

“They know our faces.”

“Small reason to kill someone. I know your face, does that mean I deserve to end up buried in some forest?”

“Дурак,” mumbles the woman. “Why are you so stupid?”

“I’m stupid, now? Okay, then, enlighten me with some foreign wisdom. How’d you deal with them?”

“Place feet in box, add cement. Throw in lake.”

Zhang starts to laugh, like a bird singing, very high-pitched and musical. “How did a dumb broad like you get into a business like this? Do you even know how to mix concrete? Or did they cut that part out in the movies back home?”

“Fuck you. Concrete feet is real and effective method of kill.”

“Really?” Zhang says, raising a brow. “I did not know that. So tell me, after pouring in the concrete, do you just uh.” He mimes tossing a body. “Throw them into the water?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds very simple.”

“Because it is.”

“No, because, in real life—you’d have to wait for the concrete to dry first, otherwise the air would make them float, you dumb, beautiful ruski, and that makes it completely pointless, because they’d see the bodies, and find out they died, which mostly ruins the point of killing them ANYWAY!”

Zhang’s voice breaks near the end, going high, in a note of big, big anger. The woman also reacts strongly. She moves a step closer and puts her hand forward, nails long like cat.

At the same time, a noise comes from the opposite side of the first floor. Big big steps, moving at fast fast speeds. Zhang goes to meet that voice, and the woman follows, leading the two out of view.

They stop just right of the stairs. It’s impossible to see them. A wall of wood stands between the stairs and the rest of the house, meaning I have to rely on trusty ears to identify their feelings.

“Zhang,” a man opens, low like growl of wolf. “Take it upon yourself to understand the meaning of lowering your voice.”

“My bad,” apologises Zhang. “But, women, you know? They have a habit of riling me up, what can I say?”

“Don’t blame women for your own lack of self-control. Are you an ant? Do your feelers twitch and react to hormonal presence? Do you lack the humanistic merit to derive judgement from reason and rhetoric?”

“No, sir-ee.”

The woman clicks her mouth. “Is that it?”

“It is indeed.” The man’s voice is cold and distant. “Are you dissatisfied with my decision? Do you want me to raise Brother Zhang over my knee and spank him?”

“Maybe.” A groan escapes her throat. “I won’t argue, but I say this: Let a man sit long enough on your neck, and you will hate his fat ass.”

“I don’t see what Brother Zhang’s gluteus maximus has to do with this.”

The woman sighs. “Zhang is trouble… man. Man of trouble. And trouble man, who is also new man, makes very inconvenient man who is even more trouble later… man.”

“Thank you for your input, Yaroslava. I will take it into consideration… man.” He pauses. “Ning and the rest await you in the car outside. I believe you have important business to attend to.” I hear the sway of heavy fabric. “Zhang. Come.”

I hear the shuffle of footsteps; the weight of one man heavy, and Zhang going somewhere. I’m still making myself small and hiding in the shadow of the staircase when I hear the woman.

Tnk. Tnk.

She’s walking back. And with a speed like hare, she blurs back across my view and disappears, opening the door and closing it just as fast. I wait for a bit longer, listening, paying attention to any sounds—hearing her go outside, and disappear somewhere else. And maybe: somewhere further out, the sound of a car driving away.

I nod to myself and lower my weapon hand. Continuing to the first floor, I creep down the hall towards the direction of Zhang. Down the corridor is a line of several rooms, and I can hear the faint whisper of the big man and Zhang from one of them.

They’re close.

I get close. My throat itches to let out some guttural noise, but I suppress it and tell myself to be patient. Ear against the wall—sound and v0ibrations pouring in, I listen to what Zhang and the man discuss. There’s time for fighting, bruising, and bloodying later.

“Brother Zhang. Forgive me for the postponement of this conversation; I had matters of import to discuss with the others.”

“It’s fine, Senior Stillwater.” I’ve never heard Zhang so respectful. “I get it. The daoshi’s got something he wants you to do, and you just acted out your role and did just that.”

“Correct.”

The two exchange small talk. Sharing information about their lives and careers. Zhang goes over his progress with the murders. His tampering with the scene of the crime. His continued relationship with his partner. Senior Stillwater compliments him on his approach and builds up Zhang’s confidence. Like a benevolent teacher flattering his favourite student.

Eventually, the room settles into silence. I imagine the two just sitting. Looking at each other. Trying to understand how to keep the conversation going.

“Brother Zhang. I must say, you’ve proven yourself. Your commitment and devotion to the cause are nothing to scoff at.”

There’s no reply. Just the creak of a chair against old wood. Feeling a sense of importance to this whole conversation, I get even closer and try to flex my ears to expand their hearing capability.

“Thank you, Senior Stillwater. But I’ve only been at the job for two months. I’ve just been following protocol and doing as bidden.”

I’m surprised. That Zhang can lick a man’s boot while speaking is a testament to how much he wants Stillwater’s approval.

“Refrain from surprise, Brother Zhang. You have demonstrated remarkable virtue, tenacity, and wisdom. Even the daoshi himself has said so, and commended your devotion to our sect.”

Sect? The word sect reminds me of a religious or martial arts group. Then again, the word sect might be quite applicable to this gang. They use magic. They probably can kick and punch. So, in principle, they’re religious martial artists. A sect in the most truest fashion.

“Thank you, Senior Stillwater.” I can almost hear Zhang bow through the door.

“There is no need. After all, it is the daoshi who has relayed such judgement, and thus, it is the daoshi whom you must relay thanks to.”

I hear movement, fabric brushing across the side of a table. There’s a click of something mechanical. Maybe a button on a machine. It’s followed by a bit of quiet static, a beeeep like a siren, and then… a voice.

“Hello, Brother Zhang.” It’s a weird sound. Filtered, or edited from the original. “As a reward for your service, I shall grant the wish you so desire.”

The voice cuts there, followed by a beeeeeeep once more. A bit abrupt if you ask me. But it’s enough to shake Zhang, and cause him to shuffle in his chair. I can hear as much.

“Wait.” Zhang stumbles over his word with a quick breath. “Wait, wait. Am I getting the implication right here? Is this saying, what I think it’s saying, about who I should be saying something to?!”

“Correct. Brother Zhang. That was the daoshi on the answering machine,” the man says, serious. “Was it not your desire, your penultimate wish to reconvene with him?”

“It is.”

There’s a particular weight to the word daoshi. Their Master of Tao. Assuming it is a hierarchy of strength, as it should be, then their daoshi must be someone most fierce. Someone who could either be the Tearer or someone stronger. Unless, there are multiple daoshi. But in that case, why would they speak of this one with such reverence?

Zhang must want to meet the daoshi for a reason. Perhaps to fight and surpass him, as I imagined myself as doing.

At the same time, a strange feeling settles in my stomach, like the discomfort after having devoured 20 Sichuan dried chilis. I can’t explain it. But it tells me one part of this big whole is off.

My body jerks to an unconscious feeling. Sounds soon follow; the footsteps of two people down the stairs. The men upstairs are coming. And I don’t want to wait to see where.

I look around. The corridor’s at a dead-end, and there’s nowhere else for me to hide. There are only a few other rooms. A few quiet spaces where I decide to try my luck.

I move away from Zhang’s room and quickly open another door in the hall. Nothing’s inside. The two men come closer, and closer, and now I’m sure they’re aiming for this hall.

I open another door, and, luckily, Yuura is there. Bound to a chair by rope. Unhurt, it seems.

She looks closely at me. Big eyes of surprise, you know.

I put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

The footsteps come closer. I walk behind Yuura and start to untie her rope, only to realise that the two men are coming down this hall right now, maybe two seconds from the door.

My hands shake. I cannot deny the excitement. Forced into a corner, the threat of my mortal enemies looming, while necessitating the work of my hands in such a dexterous manner… Truly, the accumulation of a lifetime’s effort.

Click. Click. Click.

Closer. Closer. They are closer than ever before. Yes. They walk with the jingle of metal in their hands; tools, I think. Yes. They’re about to open the door. Yes! They’re about to be here!

I push a loose end through the knot. The rope comes clean, and Yuura stands.

Just in time for Mr Emotionally Unstable to walk in—looking Emotionally Unstable as ever, with pliers in his hand. Not long after, Mr Normal enters the room too, with a face that seems incredibly ordinary and plain.

Mr Normal looks at Mr Emo. “When did we have a homeless person in our group?”

“We don’t,” growls the other one back. “Who the hell are you?”

“Brother Zhang sent me,” I reply, honestly.

“Zhang?” He says in disbelief. “Since when did he get to invite people?”

I stand upright. “I don’t know. That’s a really good question.” I start to approach, slow and deliberate, enough to seem casual. “However, he did leave me a note before all this, so it might be able to explain my situation.”

Yuura glances at me. “He’s good at kicking,” she says in Japanese.

I don’t reply. I just keep walking forward, with the knowledge that Mr Emo is good at kicking.

He bares his teeth. “Back off.” Raising his voice in great anger.

But I keep moving, and the distance between us now is two arm’s length at best.

“Back off!”

He throws a kick. A good one. Fast and sharp, pivoting on the ball of his right foot for momentum, with a straight from his left. In any other world, I might’ve been hit. Straight into the chest—kapow!; the air out of my lungs.

But not this world. Not the world where I know what he’s capable of. The world where I’m prepared for a man good at kicking.